Woman Who Glows in the Dark

“Girls we’re down 3 runners today so everyone will need to d-d-d-d…..”. My older sisters’ cross country coach was stuttering while delivering his speech. My attention faded towards the other kids on the grass with me, designated to wait while our older siblings raced. They were all picking at something. Hair, earwax, boogers, the grass, a deep wedgie. Not today, I didn’t have it in me to lay around on the grass while my sister ran through trails, plus I forgot to bring a book with me. The girls’ on her team dispersed and I made my move. “Coach, I heard LA Gear sneakers are great for running. I’ve got mine on today and since you’re down runners.....”. Before I could finish my pitch there was a bib in my hand. “Great! Go j-j-j-oin the girls, your sister will fill you in while I reg-g-g-gister you”. And just like that I was on the team. My sister wasn’t exactly thrilled. In fact she was furious that I was now involved in yet another activity that she claimed as her own. With fury indented on her face she yanked me off to the side after my joyous announcement to her fellow 6th grade P.A.L. peers. “I can’t believe you Shari! You don’t even know how to run. God! Try to keep up. I’m the pace setter, the twins are blockers, and ShellyAnne usually finishes 1st because she sprints the last quarter mile”. Her words sounded like gibberish. I was too busy staring at the butterfly fluttering around her shoulder. “Did you hear what I just said?” “Yea sure sure” I gasped. With an exaggerated wave of her hands in the air our talk was done.

That day I ran 2 miles alongside my older sister in absolute misery. My feet ached, my legs itched immeasurably, girls were elbowing my boney 7 year old body and just as I was about to quit ShellyAnne ferociously sprinted past. I figured the end of the race must’ve been near and began sprinting beside ShellyAnne. That set off a chain of events that my sister and I still laugh about to this day. Up until that point my sister had never finished top 5 in any of her cross country races. She spoke of being content with her role as pace setter, with little ambition towards a 1st place finish. Not this race. There was no way her baby sister was going to beat her across the finish line. I placed 3rd, and it was the first time my sister placed 1st, with her best friend sandwiched in 2nd place. My mere presence and energy a catalyst towards her actualizing something she wasn’t in touch with wanting at the time. She hurled herself across the finish line, nearly knocking the braids out of her head from the impact her face made with the dirt path upon flying in midair to victory. Her face, arms and legs were badly scraped, with 4 seconds separating 1st, 2nd and 3rd place. The ride home with our teammates encompassed celebratory cheers, candy, band aides and my sister letting me nap on her bruised legs.

I think about that shared memory in lots of instances involving sibling rivalry, sibling comradery, competition, admiration and naivety. I visualize the family of Lorena Ramírez the Great and her families legacy of indigenous prowess as ultra marathon runners, with chancletas on her feet. Hence my association to the book I completed on this Lunar New Year. *I’d like to add, I have such softness and recognition towards individuals with speech impediments, such as lisps and stutters, a lot due to the positive associations towards my P.A.L. cross country coach.

There are about 25 books that I considered writing about from the hearts of Edwidge Danticat, Franz Kafka, Michelle Alexander, Stephen Mitchell, Lori Gottlieb and Cornell West; yet none of their texts captured the energy of January quite like Elena Avila’s bestseller “Woman Who Glows in the Dark”. Avila, a fully trained and initiated Curandera from Mexico with Aztec & Native American blood flowing through her, shares her perspective on the ancient and sacred aspects of Curanderismo, which itself is a mixture of Aztec, Native American, African & Spanish practices geared towards health. The art is simple in its purpose and efficacy, while leaving many unable to bountifully practice it due to various reasons. Can’t read it in a textbook, can’t take a 3-day training towards understanding it, there’s no 8-hour workshop to learn how to integrate Curanderismo into a person’s private practice and no certificate to mount on a wall. You are initiated in or you are not, with the central starting point being whether or not ‘it’s in your blood’. The shamanistic practice centers people of color and aspects of ancestral worship, a practice that globally is only questioned by Western medical practices and organized religion (two very big opponents!). Essentially the view is that symptoms can all be traced to an imbalance in the spiritual, mental, emotional and/or physical spheres & that the spiritual has to be addressed first. The spiritual part is literally sine qua non, which can be burdensome for anyone who has zero belief in aspects of each and every human being having a soul. The practice is also inconceivable to anyone that cannot differentiate spirituality from religion. Another important aspect is that Curanderismo does not discount or devalue Western medicine or pedagogy, it does however center itself . I must say, there is a growing number of industries dismantling pedagogy, practice and historical ghosting that has enforced institutionalized racism and white supremacy. Historical ghosting being the act of entirely ignoring the influence and practices of nonwhite, nonmale, nonheterosexual individuals by intentionally excluding their theories and practices. The best ghoster is the person pronounced at not even acknowledging the existence of another. (Side note: if you engage in serial ghosting talk to your therapist about that. If you don’t have a therapist, go get one).

I’m not going to dive into the objective and subjective aspects of the material in the book. It’s a really great read. Avila very directly states that indigenous medicine is real and efficient, while operating primarily as a psychiatric nurse. I can appreciate the strife she encountered by essentially “outing” herself to her professional peers by stating the limitations she perceived in the mental health field, which is heavily heavily heavily HEAVILY based on ideas, research, claims and practices led by white upper class heterosexual males. The aspects of a persons intersecting identities are utterly impossible to ignore pertaining to the influence that those identities will have towards the lens in which a person works. Insert Avila who is of the opinion that an integration of different methods, from different cultural avenues needs to be considered when addressing mental health needs. I felt such gratitude at the intentional tenderness that Avila put towards NOT excluding current mental health practices, but rather calling for an integration that centers indigenous practices. 

Now I must say, at times I can be a separatist-as I don’t believe that all things are meant to be integrated into mental health practices. For instance, I don’t integrate in physical touch; I refer out to clinicians who can supplement that into a persons regimen such as an acupuncturist, massage therapist, personal trainer etc. Avila and I differ in that regard, and I value the difference just as I value our similarities.

With a growing presence of individuals desiring “alternative methods” in addressing mental health needs such as ayahuasca, soul retrievals, psilocybin, natal chart readings, divinations and sound baths [to name a few] it is encouraging that more ancient methods that were once outlawed are being exalted. There’s nothing new under the sun. The practitioners who have appropriated these indigenous practices may be “new” but the curative aspects of the practices are not “new”.

People are still trying to figure out how Lorena Ramírez can win an ultramarathon with no sneakers on, how the Dogon tribe can accurately locate planets unfounded to the naked eye with no telescope in hand, and how individuals have cured incurable diseases in places like Honduras (RIP Dr. Sebi) and Brazil (John of God). *I am in no way stating that I back the practices or personal lives of the two aforementioned men.

What happens to the unknown that stays unknown because it cannot be scientifically measured through a system of observation invented by individuals, who themselves secretly engaged in esoteric practices?

Rest in peace to Elena Avila, absolutely a great read!

Entering the Frozen Moment

Happy Holidays! xx

Between the World and Me

With Halloween around the corner there are all sorts of costumes leering in the forefront. In thinking of Halloween, Ta-Nehisi Coates came to mind rather quickly due to his Black Panther and Captain America series authorship for Marvel comics, published in this decade. It’s rather intriguing that Mr. Coates, who is well known for his vocalization of the black experience in America under the tutelage of white supremacy, is giving voice to Captain America. I’m a fan of Marvel characters on the screen but have not found interest in going through the actual comic books, endless in number. I’m present to the looooooong history of a white superhero narrative in the imaginations of American children due to what was literally being imposed in media, while aspects of being othered threaded the mutant packed imagination of Stan Lee (RIP), connecting individuals in non traditional ways. It looks as though things are diversifying…… but are they really?! Valkyrie may be the LGBT premiere for Marvel, you can now buy Barbie in a wheelchair, and there’s an increase in “non normative identities” in media whatever that means. I’m not convinced that things are enhancing for the marginalized in ways that truly equate to equity. Look at me being all skeptical… Ta-Nehisi’s demeanor rubbed off on me!

I climbed my way into Between the World And Me, an intimate letter from father to [teenage] son published for others to peer into. Initially I found Ta-Nehisi to be very cynical. And angry. The text was emotionally laden with rage and had notable historical references to critical race theory. He knows what he’s talking about as a journalist, researcher and writer; the 3 don’t always necessarily interact at once, so it was pleasing to flow through the pages being engaged both mentally and emotionally. I found his craftsmanship and vulnerability encouraging. I kept reading. He spoke of being an atheist and I was present to fine tuning how my eyes were making meaning of his metaphors and stance towards an iconoclast position. It became easier to understand him symbolically pertaining to his message once I considered the intersections of his various identities. Religion and spirituality, or lack of, gets left out of the conversation too often pertaining to the lens in which a person views the world and the shaping of the psyche. I will perhaps get further into my views on religion and spirituality in another text.

I did not necessarily relate to Ta-Nehisi’s various anecdotes but I was present to aspects of dissociating while reading, in particular during his references to the violence and terror impinged upon the black body and his direct interrogation of what being “white” is in America. It was deep and real in a way that at times literally required me to dissociate in order to not be in an overwhelming state of rage with no release. The continuous onslaught of violence against the black body is real. He spoke of it, named it and interrogated what “black'“ is in America all at once. There was an emphasis on the police. I’d like to add, I have 2-3 friends who are police officers. In this moment I’m associating to non-black individuals who say “but I have 2-3 black friends” lol as if that grants a person a pass pertaining to what they are about to say or just finished saying. I shall continue….. I am in no way anti-cop but I must say, I don’t necessarily feel safer when they are around. I’m a self identified black queer woman, with lengthy locs dangling from my head and alpha/omega energy seeping through my pores. Things have a beginning….in 2003, a week before going away to college, my brother and I stepped out of our front door and found ourselves immediately in front of a young white police officer with his gun pointed at us. The officer, in his own state of shock and incompetence pulled the trigger, which made a swift click sound, as we stood in place with our hands up in mutually shared terror. After screaming at us not to move and to get on the floor, gun still pointed, his partner screamed over to him. His radio was buzzing from his hip. I stared at him, frozen at the realization that he had just attempted to shoot one of us, I was not getting on the floor. If he had been successful my dead body would have been on the floor. I stared. The officer turned to meet his partner, and then strolled 2 houses down. Wrong place at the wrong time! My brother and I drove in silence the hour and a half ride to our grandmothers house. I found solace in sublimation. A year later my brother texted me while watching Crash, told me to go see it because it reminded him of what he termed “my death”. I understand why Ta-Nehisi wrote Between the World and Me and I’m grateful that it’s accessible to the masses.

I have had this reoccurring experience when I truly enjoy pieces of literature & written articles, then meet the writer in person that the hype is short lived lol. I prefer the fantasy over the human condition self imposed on the meet and greet. Yet, when I meet the person then read their work, what a different experience! There’s room for more nuance, tenderness and subjectivity….. perhaps because of the human condition that I just mentioned. Bare with my contradiction. I have heard Mr. Coates speak and don’t think I’ll do that again, it was however convincing enough for me to purchase Between the World and Me. I will continue reading his work, perhaps he will be my intro to the world of comic books. My mind skates to Erykah Badu’s words of wisdom to all: “now keep in mind that I’m an artist and I’m sensitive about my shit”. I keep that in mind when I go to readings, meet and greet’s and talks by authors nowadays. They’re people with real people problems and real people feelings. The appreciation of the work is hopefully expressed here.

I leave off with 2 paintings by the forever talented Nina Chanel Abney, expressive of the literature discussed here:

Anna Karenina

“Happy families are all alike; every unhappy family is unhappy in its own way”

Sound, tempo and movement encompassed my thoughts after reading this timeless piece of literature, specifically Beethoven’s Symphony No. 7, second movement. I could embed a different video of Allegretto without the dramatic visuals led by Nicholas Cage but the book is dramatic so it aligns lol albeit in a different manner. I find classical music best enjoyed with my eyes closed… try it for the 9 minutes if you have the time, and then replay it with the visuals.

I dare to ask, “who or what was Tolstoy’s muse when creating this masterpiece?!” Bravo!

Dreams from My Father

I stare out at the rows of never ending buildings and homes from my living room window, taking in Brooklyn. Scents of patchouli and cedarwood faintly twirl under my nostrils as I allow in a moment of reverie from my recliner. 

I’m brought back to being in a moderately filled nightclub with my father, our cousin and his wife in Haiti’s capitol. Kompa music is buzzing from every direction and I’m in a state of awe. Women are twirling on the dancefloor, the bar is congested with men waving Haitian gourde and someone is wearing too much cologne; I turn and stare at my cousin, he stares back and smiles. The four of us sit at a small table adjacent to the DJ as my dad waves over to the bartender and signals a man towards us. We delight in each others company sipping on water and Barbancourt as my gaze centers on a couple moving immaculately in unison with the percussion. My dad displays a sly grin on his face then playfully asks me to dance with his hand out. “Ok old man you better keep up, I’ve got kitty heels on tonight”. Our laughter echoes over the music as our hands merge in a procession towards the middle of the dance floor. Now I’ve danced with my father plenty of times but this was the last time and the brain has a tremendous way of remembering first and lasts’ with monumental emotions encompassed within absolute surety of how things unfolded. My phone rings and I’m brought back into the reality of the moment in my recliner. 

To consider that exact memory at another time in another place while in another mood would produce a different outcome perhaps. Will the suffocating scent from my cousin’s cologne be as present? Will I recall the pride felt when the owner came over to shake my dad’s hand, with cold bottles of water for the table? Did I really have on kitty heels that night or am I mixing it up with the time we danced at my college teammates wedding in Florida? The multiplicity of a story, the narrative a person speaks and believes while simultaneously feeling various emotions leads me to contemplate my version of truth. “I need to finish reading this Obama book already” I stammer while sitting up to answer my ringing phone.

A week later that’s exactly what I did, finished Dreams from My Father via audiobook because I was tickled at the idea of the 44th President of the United States reading to me. I enjoyed him reading to me and I enjoyed listening to his story told with such mature emotional intelligence; that’s the defining aspect of the book for me, the former Commander-in-Chief’s superb emotional intelligence. I wish I could say more but it would be disingenuous. 

Published in 1995 before any campaigning towards a presidency was spoken into existence, there’s an aspect of candor that I imagine would be absent had he known he’d one day be the leader of the U S of A. That’s Shari in 1995’s opinion. During my two year residency in England, I doubt I will ever forget this, I was exposed to a theory that all US Presidents with the exception of Martin Van Buren are related to John, King of England aka King John Platagenet, which gives me a “red or blue pill” Matrix style option while reading Mr. Obama’s memoir present day. Did he write this knowing that he would in fact become President one day? I appreciate that I was visually able to racially identify with a President during my existence. It’s only in the past 10 years that I can say the same about a world leader as it pertains to sexual orientation (s/o to Serbia). How progressive of a world are we living in? 

The impact on my psyche, self esteem and aspects of how I connect to resilience are all literally “uplifted” because Mr. Barack Obama ran for presidency and won twice without getting assassinated or impeached while in office. And for that to be shortly followed by the Queen of England’s grandson, Prince Harry, marrying a black woman and producing a black son (I’m going with the 1 drop rule here). This aspect of “color” being on display in the royal family and through their descendants claiming their birthright (insert Obama’s presidency here if I leaned into the aforementioned theory) leaves me in wonderment about politics and tradition in the world. I digress out of recognition that I may sound like a conspiracy theorist or a kook. All this to very directly state, Dreams from My Father was a solid read. I’m a fan of our former President. The audacity for Barack to run for President shall make waves for centuries to come. The systems strategically put into place to disenfranchise and dis-empower individuals, groups and communities based on race is slowly but surely crumbling. Up until 1967 (Loving vs. Virginia) it was not legal in all 52 states for a person of color to marry a white individual, and this year marks 400 years since the first black slave stepped foot on this soil that all of us in America call home. It truly is shocking how slowly we are progressing as a society concerning our tolerance of otherness and the ways in which that otherness is then reflected institutionally in the systems that govern what we learn, how we teach, what we listen to, how our news is angled, etc etc etc.

Headed out now to see if Michelle Obama will read her memoir to me :-) Two thumbs up to our former President. I’ll continue to have his works of literature on my bookshelf.

SACRED VIBES COOKBOOK

The variety of literature that has my actual bookshelf overflowing with information would not be properly represented if I did not highlight the variation found among the different texts. Human behavior and anthropological topics fill up the majority of my shelves concerning content, yet the worn out pages that I interact with most frequently are worn out for a reason; I continue to go back to them time and time again….. those are my gems, cookbooks!

I don’t fancy myself a chef or baker, but I do not hesitate to highlight my ability to create. Read a recipe, interact with the ingredients, be intentional about the task at hand and voila! With the vast amount of cooking shows, cooking competitions, restaurants, food delivery services, food critics, food food food food food it just makes sense that I would have some form of interaction with what I put into my body and the bodies of those I care about. Whether from a perspective of health, vitality, taste, or pleasure food is an easy entry point towards connecting with people. If I do not make my food then I am relying on another person to make my food or I am not eating. That persons energy is going into the food, which is then going into my body. I am from a generation that has access and privilege to order in, microwave, eat out and not necessarily have to put thought into food per say. As I grow and age I am working towards creating from memory and practice, being creative in my form of presentation with plating and discovering all that there is to discover about my palate. And in comes Sacred Vibes Cookbook…….. coordinated in its entirety by my former teacher, Karen Rose, and encompassed by recipes from fellow apprentices.

In full transparency, I have two recipes published in the SV Cookbook. All credit to my parents. I come from a family of great cooks and bakers so being able to make something “taste good” has never garnered admiration in my tribe. Of 9 grandchildren all 9 can cook out of necessity with 7 being able to recreate dishes spanning back to our grandparents. Presentation of that which tastes “good” and the ability to incorporate herbs from our mother country may welcome a comment of praise from the group, but that’s about it. In addition, recipes are held onto so dearly in my culture that sharing with another can be taken as a betrayal. Karen’s ability to make space for women of color to tell their stories and essentially their truth in her consciously welcoming space allows for the universality of that which is private to be released. In a very real sense, her apothecary is inviting & lined on 3 walls with dry herbs that have their roots in indigenous medicinal traditions that surpass the transatlantic slave trade. Her work of making accessible that which has been forgotten by children of the diaspora is commemorable even if you don’t believe in herbal medicine. Good luck on getting into her apprenticeship program if you can’t connect to the spiritual aspects of yourself.

From beginning to end I’ve enjoyed the Sacred Vibes Cookbook. Knowing the stories behind the recipes and the women telling the stories adds an emotional element of joy, pride and transcendent content. It pulls to mind the Combahee River Collective and ways in which women of color have joined together to create beauty, truth and inspiration for future generations. Shout out to the city’s 1st lady Chirlane McCray, an original member of Combahee River Collective back in the 70’s, who went on to publish “I am a Lesbian” in Essence magazine back when being in the LGBTQ community was even more burdensome than it is today concerning safety, rights & [lack of] privilege. Before I diverge further from the cookbook, I share that part of herstory to highlight Karen Rose’s intent to allow for the collective creation of a cookbook infused with not only herbs in every single recipe but also people whom she respects, and wanted to collaborate with. Where are those spaces and places where your sex, gender identity, sexual orientation and race as it exists on a socially constructed spectrum can be celebrated in all of its full glory? I have found that to be present in Karen’s apothecary, Sacred Vibes.

In the Sacred Vibes Cookbook you’ll find desserts, main courses, syrups, concoctions and stories woven into why each recipe exists. I’d recommend for the intermediate/advanced level cook who has access to purchasing numerous ingredients AND has a kitchen equipped with adequate cooking tools. Bravo to you Karen for continuing to create opportunities for women of color to create together in queer friendly spaces.

Below I share a photo from the “Annual Indigenous Day” bake off between my mother and I in which she absolutely annihilates me every year. One of the recipes from the Cookbook is on that table!

Hunger

Wow. Wowowowowowkwkwkwkwksjdjxbxbdbxbxbdbxbxbdbxbxbxbxbdvxhxndbbcjnsbfbfjkdbfnxjdbdzksnbxjsndnbcnddjndnfbfjchjstryuuotipqryhnjkahfiyhohgafhjkhk

That is a sliver of what my brain did while reading this phenomenal memoir. Hunger. Used mostly as a verb throughout the text, with a morsel amount of usage as a noun. The table is set. Shall we?

I am shell-shocked at how delightful reading this was. I experienced the work as comical, sassy, intriguing and intensely traumatizing. How is it that Roxane’s life story, written with such depth & intensity left me grasping for respite?! And as the last page turned I yearned for more. I was literally hungry to read more about Roxane’s life. She’s like my dad’s Pen Patat. She’s like black cod with miso from Nobu. Like Nonna D’s oatmeal lace ice cream. Like a chopped cheese from the bodega on 130th & Lenox. Like watching my guests eat my take on my mom’s homemade mashed potatoes with root vegetables & salmon. SAT-IS-FYING! I’m close to speechless at the ferocity in which she allows the reader to know her at the most unsatisfying junctures in her journey called life. Bingeing, purging, swallowing her trauma. Lonely, isolated, concealed with zeal. The bravery is astounding on the grand stage, page after page. The extent of self loathing that pounced itself around chapter here, paragraph there. At one point four chapters straight she pounded away at each pound of weight; accumulated tactfully day, month, year in & out. There’s no doubt that the torment & suffering was pronounced.

Ms. Gay.... a fellow 1st generation Haitian-American; though our sexual proclivities are not entirely the same her identification as a queer woman sealed the deal in purchasing her memoir opposed to testing it out from my local library or borrowing from a friend. I am going to continue to invest in her. I will continue to recommend her work as a fellow Bad Feminist. Via youtube videos of various talks she has engaged in, I have learned that she has quite a unique online presence via twitter. Yet & still no social media for me but I must admit I’ve looked her up a few times via my little sister’s handles lol. She’s corky with a dash of sarcasm that borders self deprecating in a relatable way, while still leaving a lot to be imagined & experienced. Hunger matched her personality and not all memoirs are true in that form.

What a spectrum of intensity. Chapter 72 was remarkable. Read the book if you haven’t already, there may be another chapter that captures your attention. The critical other, be it inside or out, within or without - allures my curiosity.

Yuen-Sing thank you for sharing this goodness with me!

Skah Shah (a well known Haitian band) stayed on rotation during house parties hosted by my parents during my childhood & was heavily played in our home during my adolescent years. Their music resonates now as I stew in Roxane’s vulnerable creation, Hunger. My identification with her Haitian roots brings up so many raw reverberating feelings and so I choose to share nostalgic music that is both beautiful, depressing & expansive in all of its glory!

Album les 10 Commandements Année 1975 Maestro : Georges Loubert Chancy Vocal : Jean Ely TELFORT (Cubano)

Playing in the Dark: Whiteness and the Literary Imagination

It requires a poem to capture the emotional vicissitude that Toni Morrison’s nonfiction literary work evokes in my right hemisphere. Audre Lorde’s poem helped me sing praise to the great trendsetter of artistic conceptualization of race in America; superb! Might I add, it is her fictional writing that usually entrances the masses. To adore the creative expression of truth surpasses intellect & beauty, I applaud her during my mother’s (and Ms. Morrison’s) birth month as one of our favorite writers:

INHERITENCE-HIS

I. 
My face resembles your face 
less and less each day. When I was young 
no one mistook whose child I was. 
Features build coloring 
alone among my creamy fine-boned sisters 
marked me Byron's daughter. 

No sun set when you died, but a door 
opened onto my mother. After you left 
she grieved her crumpled world aloft 
an iron fist sweated with business symbols 
a printed blotter dwell in the house of Lord's 
your hollow voice changing down a hospital corridor 
yea, though I walk through the valley 
of the shadow of death 
I will fear no evil. 

II. 
I rummage through the deaths you lived 
swaying on a bridge of question. 
At seven in Barbados 
dropped into your unknown father's life 
your courage vault from his tailor's table 
back to the sea. 
Did the Grenada treeferns sing 
your 15th summer as you jumped ship 
to seek your mother 
finding her too late 
surrounded with new sons? 

Who did you bury to become the enforcer of the law 
the handsome legend 
before whose raised arm even trees wept 
a man of deep and wordless passion 
who wanted sons and got five girls? 
You left the first two scratching in a treefern's shade 
the youngest is a renegade poet 
searching for your answer in my blood. 

My mother's Grenville tales 
spin through early summer evenings. 
But you refused to speak of home 
of stepping proud Black and penniless 
into this land where only white men 
ruled by money. How you labored 
in the docks of the Hotel Astor 
your bright wife a chambermaid upstairs 
welded love and survival to ambition 
as the land of promise withered 
crashed the hotel closed 
and you peddle dawn-bought apples 
from a push-cart on Broadway. 

Does an image of return 
wealthy and triumphant 
warm your chilblained fingers 
as you count coins in the Manhattan snow 
or is it only Linda 
who dreams of home? 

When my mother's first-born cries for milk 
in the brutal city winter 
do the faces of your other daughters dim 
like the image of the treeferned yard 
where a dark girl first cooked for you 
and her ash heap still smells of curry? 

III. 
Did the secret of my sisters steal your tongue 
like I stole money from your midnight pockets 
stubborn and quaking 
as you threaten to shoot me if I am the one? 
The naked lightbulbs in our kitchen ceiling 
glint off your service revolver 
as you load whispering. 

Did two little dark girls in Grenada 
dart like flying fish 
between your averted eyes 
and my pajamaless body 
our last adolescent summer? 
Eavesdropped orations 
to your shaving mirror 
our most intense conversations 
were you practicing how to tell me 
of my twin sisters abandoned 
as you had been abandoned 
by another Black woman seeking 
her fortune Grenada Barbados 
Panama Grenada. 
New York City. 

IV. 
You bought old books at auctions 
for my unlanguaged world 
gave me your idols Marcus Garvey Citizen Kane 
and morsels from your dinner plate 
when I was seven. 
I owe you my Dahomeyan jaw 
the free high school for gifted girls 
no one else thought I should attend 
and the darkness that we share. 
Our deepest bonds remain 
the mirror and the gun. 

V. 
An elderly Black judge 
known for his way with women 
visits this island where I live 
shakes my hand, smiling. 
'I knew your father,' he says 
'quite a man!' Smiles again. 
I flinch at his raised eyebrow. 
A long-gone woman's voice 
lashes out at me in parting 
'You will never be satisfied 
until you have the whole world 
in your bed!' 

Now I am older than you were when you died 
overwork and silence exploding your brain. 
You are gradually receding from my face. 
Who were you outside the 23rd Psalm? 
Knowing so little 
how did I become so much 
like you? 

Your hunger for rectitude 
blossoms into rage 
the hot tears of mourning 
never shed for you before 
your twisted measurements 
the agony of denial 
the power of unshared secrets.

-Audre Lorde